


some fervent and necessary arrangement

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [208]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Aphrodisiacs, Arranged Marriage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mythology & Folklore, Ritual Sex, Sex Magic, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25766137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: If Arthur were to do his duty, he would go back to Camelot and father a child, and in time they, too would bind themselves to the Faerie crown, and the cycle would begin all over again.If Arthur were to do somethingotherthan his duty—to stay here and seize what happiness there was in this liminal space—what would the consequences be?Written for Kinkalot Bingo 2020 Bonus Challenge #1: Sex Magic.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Fic [208]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/70688
Comments: 46
Kudos: 249
Collections: Kinkalot 2020





	some fervent and necessary arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't repost my work elsewhere or share on Goodreads/other similar sites.
> 
> Title from [_Sometimes_](https://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2014/09/10/sometimes-by-mary-oliver/) by Mary Oliver:
> 
> _I don’t know what God is.  
>  I don’t know what death is._
> 
> _But I believe they have between them  
>  some fervent and necessary arrangement._

“You’re not what I was expecting.” 

“Neither are you.” 

He’s heard a lot of things about Emrys over the years, mostly from his father, so it stands to reason that the majority of them haven’t been _good_ things, but even so the inaccuracy of his mental image is laughable. Emrys is Arthur’s height, skinny, dark-haired, and most of all— _young_. Maybe a year or two younger than Arthur. He’d been expecting an old man with a beard, perhaps also red eyes and horns, someone as twisted and hideous as his father had made him sound. Emrys is…not unattractive. Far from it, in fact.

“It will be a marriage in name only,” Uther had said, a slight curl to his lip as he explained the situation to his son. “Obviously, you will not be expected to beget an heir, but you'll be bound to one another as equals, as part of our commitment to the Balance.” 

Equals. As if Arthur could possibly be equal to _this_ : the soft, mischievous smile and golden eyes, the magic dripping from his every pore. He is good at killing things and wielding a sword, and he’s had just over two decades of his father’s temper to teach him how to negotiate, but beyond that there is nothing special about him. 

“Don’t be shy,” Emrys says, and there’s something teasing about the way he cocks his head, as if he’s been reading Arthur’s thoughts. “It’s just us here. They won’t disturb us until the ceremony is over.”

Ceremony is a polite word. “Fornication” had been Arthur’s father's term, his favourite after “ritual copulation.” The books he had dumped on Arthur’s desk and instructed him to read had been only marginally more informative, though the illustrations had certainly been illuminating. 

“I’m not shy,” Arthur says, more belligerently than he intends. He takes a step forward, reaching for Emrys’ wrist to tug him closer, and Emrys comes willingly enough, stepping into Arthur’s space until they’re chest to chest. His eyes are dark and curious, his chin tapered to a point when he lifts his head to meet Arthur’s gaze.

He’s a little taller. It seems unfair, given his other advantages, as do the long, sooty eyelashes that Arthur can see close up, the way his pointed ears stick out slightly from the glossy curls. Does he have to be so beautiful? Arthur is aware of his own stocky shoulders, the ordinariness of his soldier’s hands and flaxen hair. He has never been particularly unhappy about his looks, but compared to Emrys he feels decidedly _human_ , a lump of unformed clay next to the polished brilliance of gemstone. 

“Call me Merlin,” says the faerie, the corner of his mouth quirking in a smile. “It's my given name. Since you’re about to become my husband, you should know it, although I’ll thank you not to call me by it in public.” 

Husband. _Married_. Somehow, the official implications of tonight’s events had not seemed real until now, when the man he’s about to wed is standing in front of him.

“I’m Arthur,” he says, then winces. Of course Merlin already knows that. “I mean—you can call me Arthur.” 

“Arthur.” Another tiny smile, this one more genuine, and something in Arthur’s belly swoops and shivers. “Would you like to kiss me?” 

Merlin’s mouth is as soft as it looks, and tastes like the sweet acorn cakes they had been given as part of their pre-wedding ceremony. Arthur licks his way inside, sliding his hands beneath Merlin’s robe and pushing it off over his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Beneath it, Merlin is naked, and Arthur pauses for a moment to examine the expanse of pale flesh, tracing the slender lines of the gold tattoo that covers Merlin’s body like the veins of a rock, precious metal lining the white marble. 

He's half hard already. There’s a rosy flush to Merlin's cheeks that extends down to his chest, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs, and he’s more muscular than Arthur would have guessed from looking at him, but lean and rangy with it, a result of long years of physical labour as opposed to Arthur’s hard-won athleticism. He is Arthur’s opposite in so many ways, a river to his oak, moon to his sun, and yet somehow that is more appealing than if they had been exactly alike. 

Maybe it won’t be such a hardship to be married to him after all.

Merlin lets him look, but as soon as Arthur’s gaze returns to his face he jerks his chin at Arthur’s own robe, raising his eyebrows with a hint of playful bravado that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s nervous too, Arthur realises. The thought settles him, and he strips off his clothes without fanfare, watching Merlin’s face as he steps into the buttery light of the candle flame, the slight parting of his lips that means that he is pleased. 

“Well?” he says, hands on his hips. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” Merlin agrees, and this smile is the brightest of them all.

There are rules that they must follow. Procedures. Arthur’s father had explained it to him in very precise terms, ignoring his son’s blushing embarrassment as he described the way they would bind their wrists together with the thin red cloth, symbolic of their sacred union. Next, they were to drink from the small wooden bowl on the altar in front of them, a mixture of spiced wine and herbs that would, he said, make the ritual easier. Arthur downs the bitter liquid with heedless abandon, feeling the heat bloom in his stomach and spread into his extremities as his head begins to spin. Merlin’s mouth is stained red with the wine, and suddenly all Arthur wants to do is kiss him again, to press him down onto the furs and possess him in a rite more ancient even than this.

It’s not the wine that makes him feel it; he knows that much. He has wanted to kiss Merlin from the moment they met, but the drug now coursing through his system makes it harder to resist, impossible to concentrate on anything but Merlin’s lips as he stumbles his way through the marriage vows. _Blood of my blood, bone of my bone_ , they murmur together, _I give ye my body that we two may be one. I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done_.

The heat in the cave has grown nearly stifling, and Arthur’s tongue is thick and heavy with want, his limbs lighter than air. At the end of the chant, they feed each other honeycomb from yet another wooden bowl, licking at each other’s fingers until all the sticky sweetness is gone, their lips red and swollen from not-quite kisses. His mouth finds Merlin’s palm; his wrist. Merlin’s free hand fists in his hair and then they’re kissing properly, the ribbon falling unheeded to the floor as they entwine themselves together in deeper, more perilous ways. 

He does not, in the end, remember much afterwards. Merlin unfolds beneath him slowly, like one of those blossoms with the thick white petals, sumptuous and easily bruised. There is a small vial of slick which he uses for preparation, the smell of the oil still lingering on his hands when he wakes up, and there is the noise that Merlin makes when Arthur enters him for the first time, a soft, low sound that follows him into dreams. At some point, they are joined, and Arthur spills into Merlin who spills onto the earthen floor of the cave and it seems as though the world around them contracts, just a little, like a new scar puckering ancient skin, stitching them together.

Then, too soon, it is morning. Arthur wakes up to a body that aches, to sunlight on the rocky floor and Merlin’s arm around his waist, the night reduced to a smudge of memory at the back of his mind. Merlin’s face is buried in the sweaty hollow of Arthur’s throat, his legs tangled freely with Arthur’s own, slotted against his body as though it is where he has always belonged.

“A marriage in name only,” his father had said. He would rule in Camelot while Merlin ruled in the Faerie Realm, their two kingdoms side by side and cheek to cheek and yet invisible to one another except for one night every year. It was what they had agreed to, both of them; it was what was necessary in order to keep their worlds in balance. If Arthur were to do his duty, he would go back to Camelot and father a child, and in time they, too would bind themselves to the Faerie crown, and the cycle would begin all over again.

If Arthur were to do something _other_ than his duty—to stay here and seize what happiness there was in this liminal space—what would the consequences be?

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, lifting up his face towards him for a good morning kiss. He still tastes sweet, his skin as cool and welcoming as his body is familiar, and for the moment, Arthur lets himself forget that there was ever a choice to be made; that there was ever any alternative but to keep this, with no regrets. 


End file.
